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JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
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.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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
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.TOKEN EFFECTS
• 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.
• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.OFFERING EFFECTS
• 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.
• 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:
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.TOKEN EFFECTS
• 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.
• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.OFFERING EFFECTS
• 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).
• 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.
ᛗOOC 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!
➤ 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!
Vander | Arcane | New Player
[Because you’re a Jinx!!
Vander’s eyes, which he thought had previously been opened, abruptly opened at the echo of a familiar voice as the wave slid back from holding him. There was a terrible headache radiating from the back of his skull forward to his temples, and the sleek darkness was as daunting as it was welcoming. He’d always felt comfortable in the dark having lived in it so much as a boy and young man. The wet was less comfortable, a reminder of the start of pelting rain and worse.
He tipped up on the water and looking around this unfamiliar landscape. As calm as the water was, it seemed to span endlessly, and he had to wonder if this was what it felt like to actually cross over to an existence after death. He had died, right? He remembered falling then the bone rattling concussion of landing before his heart just seemed to… stop after its rapid and uncontrolled rhythm.
Never mind, he thought.
He began to swim towards the speck of light in the distance, surmising that was where he was required to traverse. He began to rise out of the water and shook himself off once he was capable of walking, his long strides closing the gap at first before one leg began to sink, hitching his step. He managed to recover until it happened again and his joints began to feel stiff and sore.
Doubts began to crowd his mind as he walked with nothing to do but think. He should have; he shouldn’t have; he had to; he didn’t have to. A war began to wage inside of him the longer he walked, and he began to sink, shaking his head to rid himself of a lifetime of second-guessing that all reached a culmination of: my children are dead and it’s my fault.
Grief as wide and yawning as the black ocean he traverse rose up similarly to the wave that had brought him here before. He plummeted beneath the surface and the first time, he didn’t fight. The second time he tried to shake off the reality of his failings that resulted in another failed protection; he failed. Third time he grabbed the image of Vi’s face as she stood up to him, calling him out for inactivity followed by the look of determination as she headed out to defend her family against Silco’s gang.
That’s when he gritted his teeth, set his shoulders and began to walk with a determined swing to his gait as he headed for the light. He steeled himself for whatever would come, yet splashing nearby attracted his attention. Drawn to it, he moved to aid the other person.]
You need a hand?
ii. Feast before We Go to War
[Vander had never been one for big long tables and fancy clothing. He preferred to be comfortable, and he was so used to being hunched over a meal and eat quickly to return to work or to keep an eye on children who likely thought it funny to flick crumbs and other assortments at each other or worse: steal food from each other. So the fact that he found himself here made him uncomfortable, yet the food looked and smelled delicious, appealing to him in the way that sometimes smuggled foodstuffs did.
He watched others eating first, a caution of adulthood at war with the child-instinct to grab food and horde it on his plate. He slowly picked out some items and set them in front of him before he decided he was going to have to take the risk sooner than later and no one was clutching their throats and choking to death yet.
a. Deviled Kidneys
[He shifted in his seat as the first bite came with an echo of old pain. His jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed, but it was such an old ghost of a memory that he was in disbelief that it occurred at all. He began to eat slowly and the echo grew from indistinct to something sharp and biting as his fingers clenched hard on the fork his grip. The old memory came on bits and pieces before a bite-sized portion manifested to be shared:
The sharp hot pulse of pain as the butt of a rifle slammed into the bridge of his nose paired with the audible crunch of cartilage. He stared up at the man dressed in deep blue with gold trim, filter mask distorting the laugh as he pressed himself back against the chain-linked fence as the butt was raised again even as blood gushed from his now broken nose. Behind him, a smaller body hissed like a scalded cat, barking out a slur.
“What’s that, you little sumprats? You want to feel the under side of the rifle, do you?”
The rifle flipped with a practiced ease of someone who had a lifetime of usage. The barrel pointed directly at his face, and he made a point of lifting a hand to wipe blood from dripping off of his chin then he spat blood on the barrel of the gun. Defiance overtook his expression, overlaying the fear that he was about to have his brains blown out.]
b. Marigold Brandy
[He was uncertain of the liquor but also, he was far more curious of it than any other food. He happened to pride himself on his knowledge of foreign and local brews. Perhaps he would pay for his curiousity, but he was a touch on the eager side to swirl the glass with its amber liquid and smelling the floral scent of it. This smelled like garbage that Piltover elites would drink; he would know, he’d smuggled enough of it over the years.
Usually it tasted better than it smelled. He leaned over and tapped his glass against the person sitting next to him at the table, jovial as he decided to take the plunge with only a minor hesitation. The memory came bright and beautiful, lifting all of the uncertainty out of him as he was taken back:
She was so small in his hands, swaddled in a blanket and a light dusting of red-pink hair on her head. He naturally shifted to tuck her along his forearm with her head in the crook of his elbow and he freed up a hand to touch her little scrunched nose. She was pink-skinned and sour looking, but he was infatuated with her instantly. Violet. She looked like a Violet honestly. He hummed in pleasure, broad warm smile on his face as she squirmed a little.
He blinked as he came out of the brief memory and looked at the drink in hand. For the first time in what felt like a long time, he issued a low charmed laugh. He took a second sip, hoping, needing to remember that. Another came on:
She was even smaller, tiny by comparison to even her sister. There was a long tuft of blue hair up the middle of her head, cowlicked up, and she fussed to be out of mother’s arms. She sniffled and then sneezed as he lifted little Powder up to rest against his broad shoulder, her diapered behind supported by one hand as he tipped his head to rest his ear against her back. He could hear her sniffling breaths and he experienced a joy as her tiny little fingers grabbed his shirt hem and refused to let out.]
iii. We Lay Down with Our Sins & They are Pleasurable
[Pleasure houses were a dime a dozen where he was from, so the fact that he found himself in one after exploring and traversing the spiral staircase did not actually shock him. What fancy palace didn’t have a sex dungeon, right? That’s just the way that things seemed to be, yet this one was distinctly different from those where he might have meetings away from prying eyes when he was young. All secrets were eventually spilled in spaces like this; it is what made them useful.
He slipped through the slick bodies in various stages of clothed and pleasure acts, observing at first as he explored the expanse of the place without commitment. No, he glanced up and spied the vines that seemed to be as observational as he was, perhaps more, and then the walls seemed slick with dots of condensation as one might when breathing on a window when peering inside.
He slid by contorting bodies, fingertips caressing smooth skin, not choosing anyone at the moment. Ghosts of touches, leaning in to breathe in the unique scent and the straining reach of vines from the walls and ceilings beckoning for him to partake. Coy and flirty, he slipped away in control of the situation, a designation of alpha settled over him the longer that he lingered in these spaces beneath the dining hall.
Confidence and affection in equal measure before he decided on someone that appealed to him as the mood infected him. He eased through a mass coupling, swaggering with the easy authority of someone who was used to leading through such dances. He closed the distance and moved to catch the other around the middle with a large muscled arm.]
Evening beautiful, how’s the night treating you? I could make it better.
iv. Wildcard
[Greetings! Don’t see something that tickles your fancy when it comes to Vander? Please feel free to launch your own starter at me! I’m also available for plotting at
I am also willing to match preferred writing style: prose vs bracket. I also tl;dr most starters. No apologies.]
ii / iv — wildcard
and the blunette sat there for the longest time with her eyes shrinking towards the guardians and One, waiting for them to speak more or strike. because if there's one thing she had learned about living in zaun that stuck with her, it's that people with fat bellies after a celebration become sluggish and then are easily targeted. so it's best to not fall into a "feast trap," as she likes to call it, if you want to survive.
except thirst and hunger cried for her attention; she had no choice but to indulge herself just a little. and before she knew it, gluttony took control of the wheel, and she couldn't stop her hands from stretching over dishes and glasses for more. the spur sense of needing to dance hums in her veins, and with a bright smile, the teen clutches at the hem of her dress to sashay her way to the open floors. maybe... maybe just this once, it's okay for her to accept this bliss knowing tragedy will come in the end. because as they say, "if you want to be happy, be."]
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When she rose from the table in all her finery to dance, he watched her. It suddenly struck him as she began to move. The way that she danced and moved had a striking similarity to his old friend, Felicia, and he blinked and peered at the bluenette on the dance floor. She looked like Powder but much older. No. She was Powder but older.
Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was a trick of the lighting. Maybe it was a deep-seeded sense of hope. Maybe none or maybe all of those, but Vander was suddenly shoving his chair back from the table and rising himself, though his own finery was muted compared to her own. It was fine when one considered the undercity fashion, but it currently didn't matter as he crossed the distance between them.
He slipped between dancing people or lone individuals, easing through the rising crowds until he was maneuvering into her space and lightly touched her elbow.] Excuse me, Miss, would you mind if I shared this dance with you?
[This close, this lighting, this woman was striking all the right cords. She was Powder or a figment of his imagination. Right now, he'd take either.]
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her head slowly turns to break the far-out stare, and her pinks glide towards the large hand clutching her elbow. that hand can belong to anyone, she thinks, and yet the reasoning doesn't help the lump in her throat in the slightest. so the raven straightens herself and her feathers, turning about-face carefully only to meet eye-to-eye with a hauntingly familiar man. the color on her drains for a moment, believing this is just her hallucination taunting her, except... he is touching her. it's solid and real. and it doesn't take long for her eyes to mist, tears welling and prickling down her cheeks.]
... Vander?
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cw: panic attack
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deviled kidneys;
His eyes unfocus on the plate in front of him. Instead, he sees a memory that isn't one of his own. The unintelligent question hits him as he glances around in confusion -- or attempts to look around to get his bearings. He obviously can't actually since he's viewing a memory from someone else's eyes.
He tastes the blood in his mouth as he stares down the barrel. The sensation of defiance hits him and it's a familiar one. Mentally, he curls his hand into a fist. This isn't right--
It's a beat before he's back sitting at the table. His hand lifts to touch his mouth to wipe away blood that isn't there. He scans the area around in confusion; adrenaline still burning in his veins and desire to fight running hot. ]
What was that? A gun? No ... that was someone else's thoughts?
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He stared at the plate in front of him, tasting the last morsels between his teeth and thought for just a moment that it had only been his to experience. That thought caused him to look up to investigate if others were labouring similarly under the weight of their own memories only to make eye contact with a man directly across from him.
Absently, he scrubbed his nose - which had clearly been broken and reset multiple times - as he regarded the other. He had the urge to eat again, and it was rising faster than he could delay it so he instead threw himself into quizzical conversation.]
Some feast they put on. It comes with quite the punch. Did you... remember something when you ate?
iii - Time for a bratty Omega
His own hunger rumbled inside, disquieted by the impulses that went directly against what he was. It was strange, but interesting. Regardless, Clive had no intention of exploring more of it.
Throughout his adventure through the rooms, he had progressively shed more and more of his clothing. It was hot down here, even for him. By the time he has settled into a room to explore, his red dress shirt is unbuttoned all the way down to his underbust corset, sleeves rolled up just past his elbows, his cape and outerwear discarded. He was debating freeing himself from the corset, but a little voice whispered about how tempting he must look, already narrow waist accentuated, shirt open to show a chest accented in an almost obscene way.
He was also using it to hold the tucked-away carving knife he stole from the dining room, so discarding the article entirely was out of the question, but that pull didn’t care much for the logical answer.
Clive had reached up to touch one of the vines, frowning at how it almost exhibited its own warmth when he felt an arm around his waist. Instincts warred inside. One demanded defense. Fight. Free yourself. Danger. The other demanded acquiescence. Give in. Let this man take you. He opted for the middle road. Besides, he had a lot of experience with handling people who thought they were smooth enough to persuade him into dalliances. He adamantly ignored the strange tingle of his skin where that strong arm rested and the instinct to lean in and inhale that intoxicating scent.
He rested a hand on the much larger man’s chest and looked up at him, a dark eyebrow over startlingly blue eyes quirking.]
Does that line usually work for you?
[[ooc: Clive's Outfit]]
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His head tipped and regarded the vine that hung all too close, having observed them assisting in restraint and certain pleasures. They currently held little, if any, interest to him. No, the young man in his loose grip was far more fascinating and he had been observing the other man move around since he had also made his way through this space. There was something dangerous and alluring at the same time, a challenge where one might not be found with others further down the path of pleasure.
While the clothing choice and clothing colour reminded him of Silco - a stomach souring thought - the blue eyes were captivating and the mess of dark hair. His eyes played over the scar that was etched in the left side of the other man's cheek as well, wondering at the story about it but unwilling to broach the subject now.
At the touch to his clothed chest and the words, the corners of his lips rose in a charming if a touch sheepish smile. A man who know how to play the game and usually avoid being rebuffed for long.]
Depends on the person, but it is guaranteed to land me at least a conversation. So, what brings you down here slowing removing your clothing? And is that a knife in your corset or are you just happy to be on my arm?
my novel trend continues. sorry friend.
Clive watched the man closely. Dream or no dream, this was a foreign place that had already shown how dangerous it could be twice. He was not going to let himself be caught unaware because a handsome man with deliciously large hands and a voice that made him want to use demanding lips to devour his words was giving him attention.
He let his eyes close for a fraction longer than a standard blink when said voice rumbled through his chest, enjoying how it felt under his hand. He felt the urge to lean in, to press his face into that strong neck, to breathe in the scent of this man, to tilt his head back, let him take what he wanted – He let the words themselves pull him back into himself, though he did let his gaze wander to the other man’s lips.
It wasn’t the charm in that smile that made him want to stay, but the sheepishness. He wouldn’t be terribly surprised if it was put on. It wouldn’t be the first time someone played at being humbled to try and win him over, but it was endearing all the same.]
Had your fair share of conquests, have you?
[He tried so hard not to laugh. How corny. Charming.]
How can you still have all of these clothes on? It’s sweltering down here.
[As if to emphasize the point, Clive shook his hair out, trying to get it off of his damp skin. He wasn’t sweating, not yet, but it was a near thing. The idea of sweating simply because a room was hot was odd. It hadn’t been something he did in quite some time. Now, if he was sweating because of something different, because of this man, because of hungry mouths, teeth, hands, body… He felt his cock twitch in interest. Traitor.]
Do you not make it a habit to carry a knife with you in your magically gifted bodices?
[A playful smile more lit Clive’s eyes than stayed on his face. The urge to make sure this man was comfortable, that he wasn’t on edge or nervous, overpowered Clive as he reached up with his free hand to run surprisingly gentle fingers over a strong cheekbone. Something in him needed this man to stay.]
Don’t worry, it’s not for you. It’s merely a precaution. With a place as strange as this, being without a weapon felt unwise.
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brandy
An animal noise of pain…? Something high pitched, keening.
Clamping a hand over his own mouth Harry looks down at his plate, not able to hide his watery eyes.
COMPOSURE - (No hiding it now, just act as cool as you can. No crying here, no sir.)
I'm not crying! I’m having a great time.
And he is, this manic sense of energy flooding his limbs makes him feel light, makes him feel brilliant. He could rise up from his chair and dance, he really could. They would be sick moves too. He wouldn’t serve up subpar moves in an outfit this fresh and rhinestone encrusted, this funky, this disco. He’s not sad at all, he’s so happy he could scream.
INLAND EMPIRE - (The ache of their absence is almost intolerable. They were never yours but for a moment…they were, dying would hurt less.)
PAIN THRESHOLD - (Maybe...)
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - (You know what you need. You don’t need me to say it.)
So he grabs his brandy for fortification. It burns as much as the first time. He sways in his seat and closes his eyes.
Hands reaching out to him in the dark. For the first time since he can remember someone wants him, truly wants him. It’s more than fever-born madness from the hole in his hip. He is hers. She says it.
At least someone's happy to be here.
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Even from his short distance, there was a buzzing of energy in the air that he had to wonder might be cause of the food and drink that the other man had partaken. While he watched another swing of brandy, he was swirling his own cup of liquid before sipping similarly before a memory not his own yet similar enough that he had to question it buzzed in his brain.
He coughed into a curled fist and regarded the bubbly man.]
Whose the lucky lady, hmm?
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“Oh it’s not like that- her name is Sleep. You’ve heard her, right?”
Harry hears things others can’t, so he wouldn’t normally assume but the being that brought him here isn’t like that. Sleep isn’t a whisper in his ear from the soul of the city. Sleep is a presence that radiates through the whole of the dream. Like the bass at a club, or a mortar shelling shaking the foundations of your house.
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ii.b
After the heavy richness of the food, the brandy is a welcome shift. It slides warm and tingling over her tongue, carrying a sweetness touched with flowers, the scent of a hot summer's day drifting in from a garden.
The second memory arrives with that sip. A diapered bundle with a shock of bright blue hair, fussing until a sneeze breaks it off. Then he scoops the infant up, resting her against his shoulder, and the moment blooms soft, unbearably tender. Sharon doesn’t know what to do with it except to embrace the sweetness as he did, clinging to the quiet joy of holding something fragile and new. For a fleeting second, she wonders if Chris had done the same for her, all those years ago—if he’d felt the same light spark of happiness this stranger did when she first held on.
As the memory slips away, she glances around the table, her eyes catching on Vander. She lifts her glass to him, voice pitched low. ] That was yours, wasn’t it? With the baby.
[ She knows it was, she's just awkwardly broaching the subject. ]
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He found himself staring into the cup with the brandy, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he experienced the urge to drink again. Would it chase away the heavy sorrow of the last minutes of his life? No, it would help him push it down and remind himself that the girls lived. There may still be a future for them.
He lifted his head from staring into the depths of his cup to find a young woman lifting a glass to him. The corner of his lips pulled into a small smile.] Ah yeah, that was a long time ago. I wasn't expecting that to come up.
[He swirled the brandy in the cup and then looked at the blond.] She wasn't mine by blood, just in case you're wondering. My best friend's second daughter; I had the honour of being the third person to hold her.
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By blood, he says, and it draws a small smile from her. Blood has never defined family in her eyes. ] It definitely didn't look like it was your first time holding a baby. I would've been terrified I'd drop her in your place. Or that she'd cry.
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Brandy
Though Cooper is far from being drunk if we're being honest, it'll take a lot for him to feel it.]
Nothing more rewarding than getting to hold that precious new life for the first time.
[Muttered as he tips his glass back to finish off what's left in it. A brief, but strong memory of a small baby girl cradled against his chest, her dark puff of curls dusting a top her delicate head as he presses a gentle kiss there.]
Every man could only be so lucky.
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He nodded his head, tipping his cup so that he could look into the depths of it. The corner of his lips was still pulled in a wistful smile.]
Nothing beats it, no. It's the most frightened and exhilarating experience, and then there's the whole watching them grow up from then on, yeah?
[His eyes closed unnecessarily as a memory not his own came through his mind. He hummed, nodding in understanding before he was reaching over and knocking their glasses together in a sign of both a toast and established common bond.]
She isn't mine by blood, but it felt so good to hold her, to pledge to protect her and show her all the skills she'd need. I adopted her when her parents passed. What's your daughter's name?
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[Not that he's had too much experience with that himself, but blood has nothing to do with if someone is important to you as far as he's concerned. It sure does make betrayal sting more though.
He hesistates at the question though, he's already let too many people see this part of him. It feels like he's pulled his ribs open and exposed his heart. It's dangerous is what it is.]
... Janey. Didn't get to see her grow up, least not all the way.
[Fuck it, in for a penny, in for a dollar.]
Was a mighty fine thing you did taking her in, being a father ain't no walk in the park. Blood or not.
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iib!
there is just something about him though, that despite being in masks, jayce frequently gazes, searches his face and visible features. where has he seen him before—? just when he works up the gall to satiate his curiosity and ask, it's something else that floods his senses. excuse me, he asks. in return, jayce experiences something that isn't his. definitely not— he's never held children so small. part of him is frightened to consider it. all his luck with children has been abysmal, led to their demise rather than their relief. pink hair. a sweetness that makes his core melt. blue tufts, puffy backside. it was . . .
jayce now stares at the man, but rather than sharing in his joy, the younger man seems— startled. confused. increasingly disturbed. ]
. . . I— [ he doesn't know what he's just experienced. it's not his, they weren't his arms— but something about the two little girls felt so overwhelmingly familiar that jayce is without words. the most he could do is clear his throat and turn his torso in a different direction. ]
welcome to pain
So the younger man next to him was clearly avoiding, and he was also keenly aware of the glances that are passed his way. At first, he ignored it, rolled his shoulders forward and slumped forward where he sat to appear smaller than he actually was. It was a common technique he had been doing for years, and he was trying to ascertain if the man checking him out was curious, intimidated, or just plain shy.
He felt the change of gaze from glancing to staring openly even as Vander continued to stare into the depths of his cup as if he could search more memories out of it.]
You know, even where I'm from, staring is considered rude. [Finally, he turned his head to regard the younger man seated next to him even as said person tried to turn away from him.] How can I help, gent? You seem quite taken with me so far. No need to be shy. I'm a nice guy.
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You just— seem familiar, is all.
[ it might not be the best move to mention any foreign memories now, not when they've just started talking. ]
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iii.
Since then, time has bent even stranger than usual, one moment drawing out into the next like sticky toffee. That same syrupy sweetness seems to be molded to his bones, the usual tension with which he holds himself upright leeched away. Instead, he's languid as he makes his way through the space, shedding his tuxedo's jacket and losing it somewhere amongst the thrum of bodies. His cufflinks are pocketed, the shirt's French cuffs folded up to the elbow.
Little by little, he becomes undone, and by the time a strong arm loops around his middle, he's lost the bowtie, his shirt gaped from the first two buttons being parted from their holes, and his normally neat hair mussed enough that it curls along one side of his face boyishly. ]
Already better, now. [ He tips his chin to look up at Vander, a sly smile curving across his lips, at odds with the flush high on his cheeks. ] An ideas man, huh? I'm listening.
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Most people had begun to remove their clothing, but in Vander's world, the best random trysts in public spaces were with clothes on. His version of finery still was a white sweater, clean trousers and some easy adornments because he didn't care for fancy and that impression did keep his attire easy. Since arriving here, he had bunched up his sleeves to his elbows and his hair was darkened with moisture from the heat.
He hummed, tightening his arms so they were snug but not oppressive as he pulled the other man back against him.] Not much for the orgy type myself, but find ourselves a little corner of the sex dungeon and perhaps spend some time learning what we can about each other?
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iii.
Perhaps that's part of the allure though. Someone who isn't so easy to catch. Everyone likes to play the game, right?
Wriothesley is caught by surprise when someone does manage to get ahold of him. He feels the arm snake around him and he turns to catch the eyes of the man who had captured him into their hold. He can't help but grin and laugh.] Do you say that to everyone or am I just lucky~?
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Considering I managed to catch you, I would say it's my lucky night. Wouldn't you agree?
[He dipped his head so he could scent the other man in his grip. He had no idea why it all smelled so alluring, but he wasn't about to fuss about that fact either.]
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