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

phainon | honkai: star rail | new player

[kephale]

i — you taste like new flesh
[ the feast resembles that of the celebrations in styxia, only told through stories by song. the food looks succulent, prepared by the finest chefs, and his stomach growls loudly. he should know better than to eat strange fare, but considering mydei has fed him to strangest of things in the past, well ...

a. deviled kidneys. the ground beneath is hard and compact, blackened as if it had been burned until all that's left is scorched earth. there are still traces of golden ears of wheat, buried under ashes and cinder and surrounded by destruction. crumbling walls, tattered linen waving in the searing wind. there is eerie silence all around, save for one sound.

grunts of effort, heavy breathing.

a boy, no older than seventeen, is alone, seemingly tilling the ground, working hard. his silver hair is shining under the blazing sun, his hands and arms covered in wounds and injuries, each cut oozing molten gold. for a moment, he pauses, looking around as if in search of something. but the moment passes, and he's seen dragging a twisted corpse across the ground. the boy says nothing other than a shuddering sob and another grunt, before he pushes it into a man-made hole.

a hole he made himself. a grave, only one out of what looks like a hundred—

b. marigold brandy. the effect is immediate and phainon quickly gets up on his feet, offering a hand to the closest person next to him. his smile is as bright as the sun, cheeks almost glowing.

"shall we dance?" is the invitation, but he doesn't even wait. the moment the other hand rests in his palm, he whisks them away on a merry jig across the palace halls as if listening to music only they can hear, unmindful of anyone else's stares.

pick one, pick both? ]

ii — i am not worthy
[ "i am not worthy."

those four words echo in his ears incessantly, reminding him of his worthlessness. his false title of deliverer, of the burden he continues to carry within him endlessly, without rest. he's the blazing sun meant to usher the dawn of his world, and yet, that dawn is someone else, not him. not the hero of okhema, her golden child, the prophesized worldbearer, kephale's demigod, not—

his hands wrap around the tentacle that's breached his mouth, his expression turning into pure rage as he tries to excruciatingly drag it out of him. it's disgusting, it's filthy, it tastes like despair and shame and sorrow. ]

I've tasted worse.

[ successful, phainon spits out bitter slime, holding an arm out to shield anyone behind him. ]

Go! Leave this to me.

iii — wildcard
[ ooc: happy to write a starter for any of the other prompts! nsfw prompts are fine too, i'm just a bit stuck on what to write, lol. feel free to send a pm since all of my other socials are dead atm. also, this is 3.4 phainon after turning into khaslana ... lel, i need to stop editing ]

kidneys;

[menhulu]

[ standing nearby is a familiar figure.

well, mostly familiar. this dan heng looks much like the one phainon knows, save for the patches of iridescent teal scales on his body and face, the gills lining his throat, and the long scaly tail behind him, half draconic, half finned. his body is very confused right now.

but he's not thinking about that. he's instead watching as phainon drags the twisted corpse toward the open grave, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. dan heng's jaw tightens, and he soon steps forward. ]

Let me help you. [ he says, gently. ] You don't need to do this alone.

[kephale]

[ phainon, too, watches it from a distance, wordless as his younger self goes through the motions of digging, dragging and burying corpses that were once his friends, his family, his entire village. he only pauses when he spots a familiar figure, brought into this nightmare as he was, forced to witness a scene in his past that he's tried his best to bury. ]

Dan Heng.

[ this dan heng is different—or, well, he looks different. nothing like the reserved young man he's met back in amphoreus. he offers a smile anyway. ]

... It's all right, he can do it. [ he shakes his head. ] He must do it alone.

[menhulu]

[ dan heng is no stranger to tragedy. born in a lightless prison, tormented and chained - and yet still he has never really known loss. not yet. most of his life was spent in isolation, only recently has he begun to make the sort of connections that one would grieve if severed. he does not look forward to the day he must face that feeling.

even still, though he does not know what it feels like to lose a loved one, he understands pain and loneliness, can sympathize, in a way, or at least.. appreciate the exquisite agony that phainon is experiencing right now. ]

No one should have to do such a thing alone.

[ he says gently, turning his gaze away from the young man and toward the real, solid phainon beside him, studying his profile. ]

I'm sorry for intruding.

[kephale]

[ phainon remains silent for a moment, his smile unfaltering despite the scene before them. no one should, that's true, and yet ... ]

No apologies needed, friend. It isn't as if you've chosen to intrude on this memory.

[ dan heng's not that type of person; he's learned that in the months he's spent with him and the trailblazer. the young man has always remained kind and respectful, even in the face of mistrust from the other chrysos heirs and the troubles of amphoreus.

he places a hand on his shoulder, hoping to reassure him of his own feelings. ]

If anything, I should apologize for showing you something grim.

[menhulu]

[ dan heng understands, in his way, the desire to smile through the pain, to brush it aside for the sake of others. while he does not necessarily smile easily, he most certainly diverts attention away from his own suffering whenever it arises, uncomfortable having it addressed, or seen by others. even those he cares about. especially those he cares about. it isn't easy, revealing things like this.. especially without consent. ]

It's nothing you need to worry about.

[ he says gently, shaking his head, keeping his eyes on phainon's face and not the scene around them, with the hope that it might make him feel a little more at ease. staring openly at someone's open wounds is unkind. ]

I've known grimness in my life. Many of us have. And I'm assuming that you haven't done this by choice.

[ when dan heng ate his own fill, he certainly didn't know what he was in for. ]

[kephale]

No, not at all.

[ he glances around at the death and destruction that had descended upon aedes elysiae but doesn't see it exactly. instead, he tries to study the landscape, how realistic it all is, so much so that even the earth beneath his boots feels scorching hot. almost as if they've been brought back in time. ]

It resembles the power of Oronyx, but their powers of extrapolation should no longer be the same as before.

[ especially not after they had been slain by his ... predecessor. what a predicament they've found themselves in, all because they chose to eat something. ]

Anyway, we should leave this place. There's nothing more to be seen here.

[menhulu]

Mmm..

[ dan heng is doing his best not to look upon this difficult moment, to keep his gaze fixed on phainon instead, out of respect for his privacy, but he can still see the memory out of the corner of his eye, can still hear the way it toils, and weeps. it's heartbreaking. so when phainon says that they should leave, dan heng nods. ]

All right. Let's go, then.

[ and leave the past to the past. dan heng turns, and when phainon joins him, the memory will begin to fade. ]

ii.

[regulate]

[ All he has is a cutting knife to saw through the tentacles, hoping to help the stranger entangled within them, though his attempts only call attention to himself. The wriggling arms spread further as Sunday moves quickly to stop them from coiling around his legs. ]

Forgive me, but I am not leaving you behind to contend with this madness by yourself.

[ He may not know this man or whether or not he's burdened by the weight of his own sins like Sunday, but he doesn't plan to abandon him while he can still move himself. Can still be useful.

He stabs another tentacle headed towards the stranger, trying to ignore the splatter of slime across his pristine coat. Survival over cleanliness. He'll wash this off later. He'll wash it later.

For now, focus. ]

If we leave, we leave together.

[kephale]

[ this place hardly allows them to be clean, so phainon ignores the splatter of slime on him, his attention divided between protecting this other person with him and fighting off this monster in before them. his grip around its tentacle tightens, even wrapping the thing around his arm, as he plays this cosmic game of tug-of-war.

it smells horrid, like burning flesh and rusted steel, feeding off of his strength. still, he's unrelenting; even aquila feels lighter than this freak of nature. ]

Someone has to keep it engaged so the others can escape—

[ he grunts when the abomination tries to tug him forward, his boots skidding forward on the slimy floor. phainon keeps himself grounded, tugging back as once again, that voice, those words float towards him.

"i am not worthy." ]

So, go! Please.

[regulate]

[ Unfortunately for Phainon, Sunday does not plan to budge unless it involves the two of them escaping together –preferably while alive and in one piece. The knife does break through more of the tentacles as he stabs with whatever strength he can muster, covering the two of them in thick, viscous slime. ]

No one has to be its prey. Your legs still work, do they not?

[ After all, the same words threaten to ensnare him. What difference does it make if it's him whispering it to himself or some abomination? He can still find the wherewithal to ignore both if someone is in danger. He may not know this man's history or whether or not he's even worth the effort, but he would rather judge that in time rather than condemn him for the crime of simply existing in the wrong time and wrong place. ]

We could easily make this a competition as to who could be the biggest martyr if you wish to cling to your stubbornness.

[kephale]

[ phainon winces when chunky slime hits his face, his expression souring. that's gross. ]

I would effortlessly win that competition if you decide to heed my suggestion and go.

[ because a competition is a competition, and martyrdom now is something he'd willingly fight for if it means saving someone. and to be fair, he seems to have been created for such a role, even back in amphoreus. a necessary sacrifice to bring about the end of their world and everything beyond its skies.

he catches another tentacle aimed towards the other man, twisting it around his arm to keep it from lashing out at them. ]

Well?

[regulate]

[ This would be a lot easier to contend if he still had access to his powers, including convincing this man that he doesn't need to give his life up for a fugitive, but in the absence of that, his slicing and cutting will have to do. It's not like he could physically manhandle this man out of the room, and even if it he could, it would seem a bit rude...even if it would be for his own good. ]

Are you waiting for me to leave first? You will find yourself for a long while then.

[ He stabs another tentacle, wishing he had something more substantial to defend himself with than a knife he took from the banquet table. It's obvious such a dull blade was meant more for cutting thin pieces of meat rather than combat, and he never had any reason to build muscle while managing the Oak Family and serving as Bronze Melodia. His mastery of the Harmony had always been his greatest asset. ]

I already said I am not moving until you do.

[ He repositions himself, standing back to back with the stranger and capturing any other squirming tentacles to keep them from latching around either of them. The creature seems to be regenerating itself at a rate that is alarming, and they'll likely grow tired before achieving victory. ]

[kephale]

[ in a battle of stubbornness, phainon's not one to easily give in, you know. he's been rivals with mydei for so long that the crown prince's own version of stubbornness and competition had only made him more pigheaded. but unlike mydei who can hold his own in a fight like this, he doubts his companion can do so.

he grits his teeth, torn between his unwillingness to lose to this ridiculous bet and his need to save this one, utterly incorrigible guy. the latter wins out, of course. ]

... Fine! If you're not moving, then I'm moving you.

[ sunday has experienced almost becoming an emanator, but has he experienced becoming portable luggage? because that is what phainon will be doing right after tearing out a lashing tentacle, throwing it to the side: turning his companion into portable luggage under his arm. ]

Hold on!

[ onto what, who knows? but phainon's running now from this battle with sunday in tow. ]

[regulate]

Wait, wh–! 

[ He's not even given much time to process what's going on before he's being picked up with an embarrassing amount of ease. He can't weigh that little...especially with all the layers he has one.

On the plus side, at least the stranger is finally running away from the abomination rather than towards it, so he can't complain too much. He doubts they would have won anyway, considering that creature could constantly revive itself at a rate neither of them could keep up with while the two of them are only at a fraction of their true strength, if that.

He stays put until they are a good distance away before finally trying to wriggle himself free. They're safe enough that he does not have to endure this indignity a second longer, both his proverbial and literal feathers thoroughly ruffled. ]

You could have simply told me to run. I would have listened.

ii.

[sorte]

[ That has got to the most predictable thing to come out of someone's mouth and into Aventurine's ears yet. Of course this guy is exactly as he looks. A hero. A selfless defender. ]

Well, aren't you something? I wonder if you're both related.

[ Aventurine doesn't elaborate on whom he's referring to.

Technically, he has no issue with saving his own ass and leaving this guy behind, except this one is clearly already worth way more alive than dead, dream or otherwise. ]

Listen, friend. I don't think we can confront t head on. What are you even going to fight that thing with?

[ The tentacle that Phainon managed to pull from his mouth whips around again, but before it can even try and get close to touching either of them, it bangs into a golden barrier erected around them both. ]

[kephale]

[ despite the commotion, phainon doesn't miss the comment about him. but seeing as it's not the time to make small talk about possible family relations and resemblances, he doesn't address it just yet. there's time for conversation later on, just not now when their circumstances require his full attention.

he prepares him from the possible retaliation from the monster, its tentacle whipping around once more to catch them off-guard. but instead of catching the appendage, it bounces back, hitting against what seems like a barrier only visible for a few seconds.

the recoil is enough for phainon, however, his hands quick to grab the tentacle to drag it forward, forcefully trying to rip it off. ]

With my hands. [ he grunts, pulling the wriggling thing sharply. ] You've never fought barehanded before?

[sorte]

[ fighting barehanded is admirable in some ways; but when it's against a gross fleshy biomass Abomination that has tentacles that like shoving themselves down people's throats, Aventurine isn't sure if that's really as 'common sense' sounding as it comes off as.

It's not as if the gambler has a good reason to argue, though, and so he doesn't respond immediately. He also doesn't wait and watch to see whether or not the other is successful in ripping that appendage off since he figures it won't matter. If he's guessing right, this guy isn't going to change his mind about fighting with it until—at the very least& mdash;everyone else is 'safe' (because such is the way of these damn hero types.)

Aventurine looks around quickly, attention bouncing between the man in front of him, those around them fleeing, those around them trying to stand and fight, and those that are unfortunately already victims or in the process of becoming so. It makes even less sense to him than it would, even after having a three months of getting a taste of the nonsensical insanity that Sleep seems to drag out for display and engagement with Her 'chosen ones.' ]

This is just a dreamscape, but...

[ His attention jerks up towards One again, lifting his mask just enough to narrow his eyes towards the supposed overseer of this banquet. Is this simply a dream going sour like the last time or more like something of a bad memory replay mixed into it?

It's probably best that he tries to find out, and is far more helpful than trying to get the other man to back off. ]

...Gonna try and figure something out... Just... don't die, that would be really ugly.

[ He's going to turn and leave as Phainon originally had ushered him to do, although Phainon should have a some more hits left to his shield that he can take advantage of in his fighting. Aventurine, meanwhile, is going to go run after One. ]

Kidneys

[untilldeath]

[ . . . Well fuck. This isn't a sight that anyone could ever prepare themselves for. The dead litter the ground, a literal graveyard of bodies for as far as the eye can see. And among them, one teen is attempting to handle the impossible situation by himself.

It makes Till's stomach churn. He isn't unaccustomed to trauma or death. He feels everything, though, and isn't unaffected by the sight. Swallowing the bile in his throat, he grits his teeth. He doesn't know what to say, so instead, he silently approaches, and begins working too, with a quiet-]

Let me help.

[kephale]

[ the expression on the teen's face is surprise despite the hollowed look in his eyes, if only because there's the realization that someone else other than him had survived this tragedy.

he looks around. the fires of aedes elysiae had been quelled, though there are still some that are burning, once vivid tapestries now reduced to kindling. his gaze soon turns back to the other boy. ]

There's a handful that I've already buried. [ a little over ten graves have been completed behind him, he's been doing this since the screaming had stopped. ] If you could lay a marker on them, that would be helpful. Thank you ...

[untilldeath]

[With a light tap of his hand on his shoulder, he nods. Till's not exactly a brawny guy, but he can make something of a marker for the graves. He's artistic enough to try and make it something more than just a stick in the ground, though. At least until they can make some kind of actual memorial to all of the people here.

So he begins collecting little rocks, pebbles, and other material that didn't burn to create flowers upon the mounds of dirt to mark that the sites of the lost souls.]

[kephale]

[ there was no way he was planning to be picky over the memorial, his attention and focus narrowed on making sure that everyone was properly accounted for and buried. in fact, his hands haven't stopped moving: digging, dragging, burying, rinse and repeat. gold blood trickles down his arms and onto the burnt ground, but phainon continues his preoccupation like someone on a mission.

he only pauses when the other catches up to him, taking a step aside to allow him to do what he needs to mark the fresh graves. ]

Apologies, and my thanks for your assistance.

[untilldeath]

[Till gives a small shake of his head. There isn't any need to thank him. This seems like the bare minimum someone could do in this shitty situation. He doesn't even want to imagine how bad things had to be here for it to get to a state like this.]

I haven't done much.

Maybe you should sit down for a bit. I can take over for a while.

[kephale]

Ah.

[ rest. that's something that hasn't crossed his mind despite doing this for hours now, though for a very valid reason. his gaze flickers to the rest of the village that remains strewn all over its once fertile land, now unrecognizable. there's still much work to be done, more graves to be dug.

phainon shakes his head, his grip around the shovel tightening as he attempts to offer a faint smile. ]

It's all right. I see this as training ... [ physically, mentally. ] I'm sorry, I have nothing much to offer you at the moment.

[untilldeath]

I'm not helping because I expect something.

[He just... knows what it's like to face a real emotional, sitty situation. Even if this guy is somehow keeping it together visually.]

So don't worry about it. I just... don't wanna add to the to-do here right now if you keel over from exhaustion or something, too.