JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

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Prologue: New Characters

You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.

It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.

The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.

"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.

"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.

Welcome home, new Vessels.

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Sink Down Like Precious Stones

( content warnings: drowning, body horror )

Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.

This is a test, and it begins with belief.

Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.

Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.

NOTES:

• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.

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You Taste Like New Flesh

( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )

The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm. Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.

"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."

The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.

Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.

Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.

Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.

Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.

Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.

Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.

Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.

The table awaits.

NOTES:

• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.

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There's Something In The Way You Lay

( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )

Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten. At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are. You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.

NOTES

• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.

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I am not worthy

( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )

Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot. First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence. Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall. They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.

"I am not worthy."

One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.

It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.

When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.

What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.

This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.

One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.

NOTES:

• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).

OFFERING EFFECTS

• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.

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OOC NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!

➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.

➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.

➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!

➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!

➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.

➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!

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Comments

ranni the witch | elden ring | existing player

[deathstealer]

plotting comment | cosmonautdelta

✘ ⸻ you taste like new flesh

[ --and then, after months of surviving in a slowly rotting city, they find themselves in the dream once more.

This time, Ranni is determined to analyze it to its fullest extent. Her first venture here had been consumed wholly by curiosity and questioning other people; this time, she wants to catalogue everything she sees, down to the smallest detail, as mistakes are so often revealed in such details. There is a long, black ocean capped in a luxurious palace, and despite her best intentions, Ranni is changed. No longer in her shapeless dress and thickly furred cloak-- instead, she wears a pale lunar grey evening dress, the chest little more than wide-linked chainmail revealing her torso and the dark metal peeking through the broken porcelain of her doll's body, her back draped in nothing but thin chains and iron jewelry. Like this, without her massive hat, without her bulky clothing, she looks exactly like what she is: a specter inhabiting the slender form of a doll, somehow even larger than life now. Fractured porcelain at her joints, age-darkened metal, and one glowing blue eye that's absorbing everything with a keen interest.

Uninterested in following the crowd, she remains standing while most eat -- indeed, she cannot digest anything. She watches as others fall victim to memories, to emotions, so alike to the first time they were in the dream. But there is one item on the long table that calls to even Ranni, and though this body is not built for food and drink, she takes a sip of the Saint's Breath Chalice nonetheless. The wine flows past her lips, through the cavity of her mouth, and hits the metal of her internal structures, dripping past iron and brass ribs.

She sees darkness, and faith, and glowing crimson eyes.

And before she knows it, she is caught up in a dance with another. One pair of her hands are settled on their waist; her other pair on their shoulder and clasping their hand, and their movements feel as natural as breathing. Ranni is silent for a long moment, absorbing the vision, distracted even as her body moves with ease. ]

Didst thee also see the shape of shadow and eyes,
that which sinketh claws into thy very mind?
The provided fare once more sets alight memory and emotion,
but from the wine came a memory that was not mine own.

✘ ⸻ the way you lay

[ ooc: ranni will be designated as an omega for this, though a typically dominant one because that's just how she is. OTA, 20+ characters only, please. preferences, permissions, and kinks are in her journal! ]

[ Below the palace lays something else entirely. If the room above had become an intimacy of the mind and memory, then what lays below is an intimacy of the flesh. Initially, it is a beautiful sight; vessels lost in pleasure, art in the glimpses of parted red lips and tremulous sighs. For centuries, Ranni has not been a sexual creature, far too focused on her own mission and fate.

To give in, to partake, feels like surrender in the most crass of ways, the most heinously vulnerable. And yet, she yearns nonetheless, a yearning that has been in her breast for the past months, a need to be close. Her tethers have calmed that need somewhat, but her body burns nonetheless. And as she steps closer to the mass of writhing flesh and moans, her body changes. For the first time in eons, she is aroused. She wants. She can scent it on herself in a way she has never smelled before; snow-capped grass and smoky herbs.

If she abstains, if she does nothing but stand to the side and observe, she may miss vital information. This is how Ranni rationalizes it to herself when she gives in and approaches someone.

So, she picks someone. Mostly instinct. Mostly need. Someone set apart from the crowd.

Their back is to her, and Ranni takes advantage of this. Both pairs of arms wind around her target. It cannot initially be comfortable-- with her magic, Ranni emits an intense chill, a snowy breeze over the skin -- but here, amidst the heat and the stifling air, it may yet be something of a relief. Vines follow her wishes, creeping up their legs as her hands smooth over their stomach, lips pressed to the back of their shoulder. ]

Thou'rt set apart,
and yet, infinitely attracting.
Why dost thou remain separate from the crowd?
Art thou waiting for someone special?

new flesh

[paravore]

[ With a sip of the bitter, blood-thick liqueur, his first thought is that the flavor is entirely new, existing within neither his memories or Hikaru's. But the thought evaporates when he feels the cold and dark of the palace shift against his skin. He is no longer in the palace, or at least, not the dinner table he was sat at moments ago.

Four hands are touching him. One eye is studying. He blinks, startled, at the girl guiding him through a dance he somehow knows. Then he realizes she is not wearing a porcelain mask. It's her who's porcelain. ]

Huh?

[ The verse goes right over his head, too shaken by the shared hallucination. And, yes, it's the verse that perplexes him, rather than her appearance. ]

Uh... a haunted doll?

[ He's pretty chill with that actually. Frowning, he glances nervously at the many-eyed horned shadow looming nearby. ]

Wh... what the hell's... that thing?

[deathstealer]

A vision of dark power,
and love poisonously intertwined.
For a mere shared sight,
its' feeling runs as deep as a coursing river.

[ She doesn't answer the inquiry regarding her status as a haunted doll. Technically, she is. If the specter of a god inhabiting a life-sized doll counts as such. The comparison makes her smile thinly, amused, both porcelain and spectral mirror mouths moving.

She leads the dance with the air of one used to commanding, thoughtlessly and easily, but her gaze is fixed just over the boy's shoulder, thoughtful. Contemplating the vision they just shared. That dark figure with the glowing red eyes... it has embedded itself upon her memory like a stain. ]

'twas a god, I suspect.
But a god of what, and who?
Hast thee seen its visage before?

[paravore]

[ The vision feels real — sort of; 'Hikaru' sees it even though it isn't there, like an Impurity lingering in the woods. But unlike the Impurities he's preyed on for centuries, that thing isn't afraid of him.

The whatever-it-is haunting this doll isn't scared of him either. Which is what makes him suspect that neither her, nor the figure, are actually ghosts. ]

Nuh-uh. The ghoulies I'm used to are a lot more, uh, rotten-looking.

[ He finally turns his eyes onto the porcelain girl. The fact that she isn't human is obvious. Whatever she is, she's piloting around this ceramic body. Can she tell that 'Hikaru' is doing the same with this human body? ]

You're pretty funky too, huh. Y'know anythin' about where we are?

[deathstealer]

We are in a dream of fine making,
dreamt up by a god of a rotten moon and stagnant life.

[ Is... being called 'funky' a good thing?

Ranni has learned many new words since coming here. Not to the dream, but the world they found themselves in after the first dream. The city called New York, a broken and stagnant place full of blank-eyed Hosts and fungus-riddled animals. There, in archival newspapers, she has learned words like scientist and robot and atom, but 'funky' is not one of them. Hmmm. She shall have to look it up afterward. ]

If thee survive this dreaming and leave for the world beyond,
thee will find thyself in a different reality:
a land of the name New York, abandoned and festering.

[ Her shrewd gaze rakes over him, contemplative. He is not human, that much is obvious. The core of him is like black smoke, wearing the human outer layer like a mask. This is not concerning in of itself; after all, Ranni can hardly point fingers. She is merely curious. ]

For now, treat this dream as thee wouldst any other.
Explore. Nourish thine curiosity.
But be cautious indeed; danger may lurk beyond every shadow,
and every morsel of food on thine table.

new flesh

[beaffrayed]

[ Now this is unusual even for him - the dance, the memory, and his impromptu partner that he's dancing with as that alien darkness fades. As his consciousness returns in full, he stiffens in surprise, and that tension never quite ebbs from him.

Still, no reason to take it out on her. He doubts that she has any more choice in the matter than he did.

In some ways Fray is reminded more of a Voidsent than anything he's seen before, those ones that had taken the shapes of dolls, but a Voidsent this clearly is not. ]

...It's no memory of mine, either. To be steeped in darkness is naught new to me, but that was something else entire. [ The abyss did not manifest in such a shape, or indeed any shape at all. ]

So if the vision did not come from either of us...then who?

[deathstealer]

[ In many ways, the being before her reminds Ranni of home. Of her consort eternal, the Tarnished. Many of the people that have been pulled to this world are what Ranni has been calling 'very modern' -- people of strange fashion and times -- but here, dancing with a person clad entirely in armor, is far more familiar to her. ]

A god of this realm, I suspect;
a tempestuous being who demands thy fear and love.
Its worshipers forsake all else in service of it,
and now it seeketh our own affection.

[ She leads the dance with the air of a person used to being in command, and the easy movement of one long ago taught courtly dances. If there are others around them, Ranni is ignoring them, her contemplation sunk deep inside as she remembers the fragment they saw. ]

The dream thee find thyself in,
is but a part of its machinations.
Thou'rt being toyed with,
as a cat toys with a pitiful mouse.

[beaffrayed]

[ That explanation gets a soft, weary sigh. Fray's breath stirs the veil that otherwise completely hides his face, enough to reveal a brief glimmer of golden eyes beneath. ]

Again with these 'gods'... [ Primals aren't the same, but they're near enough that the description makes his skin prickle with commonality. His voice is grim when he speaks next. ]

I'd ask if they have aught better to do than to solicit the attentions of mortals with dreams such as this, but it's a futile question, aye? No doubt it's in their nature to thirst for such a thing, and they believe they're entitled to drink their fill - and to be so witnessed in the doing.

Does this god sustain itself on dreams alone?

[ Despite the harshness, there's a hint of pity in the words, even in the question. While he himself was never such a parasitic existence, he can understand the desperation to be heard. He had felt it himself once; so keen was the echoed pain that it drove him to near-madness.

Fray's movements are more utilitarian, more rigid as he moves with her; clearly not one who has experience with dancing, but it's enough like positioning himself in combat that he doesn't need to depend on Ranni to do all the work.

He follows her lead like a shadow, an easy partner to dance with. ]

[deathstealer]

What else is a god to do?
When one has slaked one's appetite for creation;
for destruction and knowledge,
one must turn to control of the ants beneath.

[ Ranni's tone is somewhere between contemplative and dry. She's also not telling the truth as she sees it. In her opinion, most gods are indeed fickle things who love nothing better than manipulating the little beings in their care, but Ranni has proved that a more objective god, a more logical and cold god, is a possibility.

Is she a god, still? Here, in this dream, where she still has her magic, perhaps. But in the real world they have been pulled to, the world where her magic is distinct from her, perhaps not. ]

What this god sustains itself on,
I cannot say, I do not know.
This dream is not their only machination;
indeed, there is a world beyond
made rotten and still by their loving care.

[ As Ranni bows over his hand during the dance, she uses the moment to peer shrewdly at him. His full-face mask is refreshingly blank, though his irritation was evident enough in his words.

Ranni can hardly blame him. She, too, is annoyed by being pulled from her home. ]

If thee find thyself there after this dream;
seeketh thou a library of the name Morgan.
I have made it mine home,
as it is a fine source of archival knowledge.

new flesh.

[gnostalgia]

[ logic tells her not to eat, because nothing spread out like this in a place they've all been kidnapped to can be trusted at all, in her mind. janey always called her paranoid (for good reason, roxy supposes, given the state of the world), but... roxy would like to think it's "healthy skepticism", as her bestie would ascribe to.

the urge to indulge is far too great, and as she's reaching for something to drink, something she hopes is neither cursed nor alcohol, a curiosity catches her eye. and she stops. she doesn't speak until she watches that drink splash upon metallic internal structures. ]

...Bruh. [ very eloquent, speaking in that breath between drinking and dancing. ] Are you a robot?

[deathstealer]

[ For the first time in this dream, and its world beyond, Ranni finds herself... somewhat caught off guard.

Going by the state of her dress, Ranni can only surmise that her dining companion is from a world more 'modern' than her own. Like Kalmiya, or Ozpin, or Arthur. Worlds with fascinating technologies and staggering inventions. Worlds like the one they have been brought into; the world beyond this dream, the place called New York City, rotten and silent. It is in the newspapers there that she has learned of words like scientist, and atom, and -- indeed -- robot.

The dancing comes to a halt. Ranni's top pair of hands clasp thoughtfully together, and the faintest of amused little smiles comes to both pair of lips, both porcelain and spectral. ]

This form is powered not by electricity and mathematics;
but by mine own spectre, divested of mine flesh.

[ She turns just slightly to make it obvious. And there, beyond her porcelain face, is a conjoined ghostly face alongside it, like her spirit didn't fully fit inside the doll body. ]

Might I ask the same question of thee?
Are thou human, or an imposter?
Art thou mundane, or magical?

[ Her sly little smile grows, and she dips into an almost-bow, offering a hand for her companion to take and join her in dance. ]

Art thou scared of this dream and its wild lands,
or doth thee chose to embrace the unknown?

[gnostalgia]

[ and just like that, roxy's eyes light the fuck up hearing ranni speak, seeing the way her body shifts and the spectral within. there's so much coolness going on right here that roxy doesn't even know where to start. eyes dart back and forth between faces, like she's trying to figure out which one to look at, but there's so much excitement here, even in this hellish landscape in which they've found themselves. ]

Holy shit, holy shit. [ she speaks in rhyme?? that's so COOL?? but roxy's not going to be rude and she quickly takes the proffered hand to step into dance, running through everything ranni said and figuring out ways to reply. ] Uhm, uh, first? Totally mundane, nothing— [ a gasp ] —wait shit that's not right.

[ roxy moves on her tiptoes to keep up with ranni, shaking her head. ]

I got all these cool void-y powers now that I'm kinda a god? But I dunno if they still really work here. But I'm human! [ then she looks up at her ears, the new ones set upon her crown... ] I swear I'm human, these are new.

[ finally she settles next to ranni on the dance floor, allowing herself to be lead in a dance she doesn't know the steps to. ]

Since the void's kinda my thing, I should brace the unknown, yeah? [ a slight shrug ] S'a little scary being here, but I've met some dope peeps and my bestie's here, so it's not all bad!

[deathstealer]

[ Though Ranni's expression does not change, there is nonetheless a glint of keener interest in her eye as her dancing companion reveals that she is 'kinda' a god of the void.

(She does not have any idea what 'dope peeps' or a 'bestie' is, however. That part of her companion's speech flies right over her head. It seems she has some slang to learn.) ]

Thy powers will work here, in full, in this dream.
But take caution:
the first of us awoke from a similar dream
to find ourselves in an abandoned city.
Thy native magic will not work there;
only newly given power, gifted by a fickle god.

[ Needless to say, it's something that Ranni is persistantly annoyed by. She almost prefers the dream, where she has her magic. In reality, stripped of her magic and given only a moon-slice halo, with a doll's body that does not work very well without its magic, it's... trying. To say the least.

She leads the dance with the ease of someone who never saw any other option but to lead, moving her companion around the dance floor like they've practiced together dozens of times. She is a fellow god, it seems. And so, Ranni finds herself curious -- and dubious, with the wary nature of a woman who has only ever seen gods as corrupt and tempestuous. ]

These lands are certainly unknown, a curiosity to be embraced;
but given thy speech, thee might know the other side of the coin.
From here, the reality that we were placed inside,
was a rotting, great city of the name of New York.
I know not if I and thyself will be sent there once more,
but thee may take freely the information nonetheless.

new flesh;

[vixenish]

[ it's too bad.

that was the one thing on the table of which she was trying to avoid the effects.

caught up as surely as Ranni herself, Lortel dances with her without hesitance, her hands having moved without her command to their places. though she is not smiling, the look on her face is gentle.

what a strange, beautiful woman. so cold. though she is an ice mage, she feels it seep into her bones.

she does not shiver. ]

I did. Six eyes. [ ... ] Just like all the empty vessels seated at the table.

[ another pause as Lortel regards her. ]

I saw you looking around, before. What did you see that interested you so?

[deathstealer]

Everything here in this dream is of interest;
from the hallucinations of many eyed gods,
to the keen recollection prompted by the table's fare
and those falling ecstatically under its sway.

[ Ranni easily takes the lead in the dance, guiding her companion through the steps. Though she has a body that may perhaps seem ill-suited for it, Ranni dances well, with all the practiced ease a woman who was trained extensively in courtly dances.

She pauses thoughtfully, contemplating the vision they had just shared. It seems simple enough to guess that the black, red-eyed creature was the god they all find themselves in thrall of. Was that reveal a deliberate move by the god? Or were they granted an accidental glimpse?

Then, her gaze catches on her dancing companion's-- what she assumes are new accessories. The vulpine ears and tail, similar to what she has seen on another here. More 'gifts' from this god. Her own halo, a lunar slice of a dark moon, is particularly visible here without her hat. ]

Dost thou remember ought else from the vision?
Sensations, touch. Words, perhaps?

[vixenish]

[ her eyes can't help but search Ranni entire, from head to toe. Lortel has never seen anything, or anyone, quite like her before. the sight is arresting in a way she did not expect.

how lovely, then, to dance with someone so beautiful and strange. ]

... I do. But they worry me.

[ she tilts her head, gaze skating off to one side. ] "One. Beloved," [ she echoes from memory. ] ... "we were meant to be."

[deathstealer]

Aye; I heard those words also.
A curious thing,
a god that desires mortals so keenly.

[ Ah, perhaps not so unusual. Her own Consort Eternal is a mortal, in a sense. Would that they were here; perhaps she might feel a little more at home, a little more steady whilst adrift among these waves of dreams and reality.

As they dance, Ranni's gaze goes distant, thoughtful. Who is One? A worshiper of particular note? A priest? Or merely someone chosen by this god? ]

What would thee do,
in such a situation?
A god has targeted thee out of obsessive love,
and calls thee by thy very name,
wanting ties eternal:
what is thine reaction?

the way you lay

[longwillows]

[Though she is not exactly the same as she was in the first dream, nor as in their encounter with Ranni's malicious reflection, Kalmiya's form is still made up of similar and recognizable parts—the vulpine foxglove-fuchsia ears, the ethereal floating waves of her hair, the shimmer to her golden skin that takes on new colors in the strange lights.

Her shape is still otherwise humanoid, flattered by the strappy dress that truthfully doesn't offer much in the way of coverage. Abrupt though it may be, Kalmiya doesn't seem surprised at all as Ranni twines around her, wrapping her up in limbs and vines and a chill that prompts an excited shiver. She lifts a clawed hand to set atop one that ventures over her stomach, both encouraging the exploration and indulging the reciprocal need to touch, a playful giggle preceding her answer.] Maybe I was waiting for you!

[Maybe she was. With a predator's nose, she could smell Ranni even from a distance, the profile she's accustomed to just a note appended to roasting herbs and the crisp verdancy of fresh snowfall over still-living plants. It was only preoccupation with other scents, other fancies—such as the wall of implements she had been browsing—that kept her from following it until now.]

[deathstealer]

Thy flattery is indulgent,
and poetry to mine ears.

[ Never before has Ranni met someone with such golden skin, and the shift in hue it makes under the lights in the den are fascinating. Ranni chases the colors with her fingertips, burnished gold and alloyed gold and matte gold, fading into something close to bronze in the deepest shadows.

Ranni's lips press to the back of Kalmiya's shoulderblade, a chill point of touch. ]

In truth, I so very rarely experience feeling;
I find myself caught up in this heady atmosphere.
Yet, where once I would abstain,
tonight I feel the need to indulge.
Thee would be a worthy partner,
if thee wishest.

[ Two of Ranni's hands smooth exploratively over the straps of Kalmiya's dress, an unfamiliar style to her yet so intriguing. Truly, there is so much to learn of other worlds, and the one they find themselves in now. But tonight, Ranni is not in an academic mood -- at least, for academics other than the intimate study of bodies. ]

[longwillows]

[Already excited by the potential that Ranni's extra limbs hold, Kalmiya lets out an indulgent purr as two of them begin to learn the texture of her dress. The cool press of Ranni's lips shapes itself to her shoulder (currently bare of her Celestial birthmark, after some careful shapeshifting—bare of everything, in the most inviting fashion.) Lightly, teasingly,] I do wishest.

In fact, [her voice dips a little lower, the hint of jest falling out of it as the timbre becomes velvety and sultry,] I wished it very quickly after I first saw you.

[If praise is poetry to Ranni's porcelain ears, then Kalmiya has both the passion and the breath to recite it all night long. There's no need for inauthenticity in this performance, either; it's very much the truth that Kalmiya has regarded Ranni with a spark of prurient interest ever since their charged encounter in the first dream.

A tilt of her head is a little too exaggerated to be coy.] But I experience feeling quite often. Perhaps opposites attract in that regard?

[As reactive to Kalmiya as they are to Ranni, a few verdant tendrils creep up along the sheer folds of her magnificent dress, as if seeking permission to venture further before they touch.]

cw: getting nsfw up in here

[deathstealer]

[ The news that Kalmiya had desired her so shortly after meeting her is a surprise to Ranni. She holds no illusions about her form; it is unusual, and many would not desire to sleep with an inorganic body. Her face, modeled after her own organic one, is attractive enough. But her porcelain is eroded, her metal weathered, and she cannot provide the same soft, warm comfort that traditional human bodies can. She is in no way ashamed of this, merely practical.

Still; it is a pleasant surprise. ]

Perhaps thee will lend me thy open and feeling nature for a time,
and I can dwell in such unfamiliar things as a luxury.

[ One hand settles low on Kalmiya's stomach, and another smoothes upward over her belly, her ribcage, to cup one of Kalmiya's breasts, long fingers curved over the fabric of her dress. Ranni presses her lips to the back of Kalmiya's shoulder, her breath like a winter's breeze, mouth made soft by the changes this place makes to bodies.

The creep of a vine up dress makes her smile, a hand caressing the pliant things in silent permission. ]

In truth, I found attraction to thee, too,
in all thy wildness.
Thy hunt in the first dream was graceful;
I would'st treasure seeing thee in combat.

you taste like new flesh

[for_sake]

( when the vision sinks, like the echoes of claws, yoshiki is less graceful than his dance partner. where she continues smoothly, he matches her movements solely by a muscle memory disturbing in its presence. he contrasts her even in clothing; at first he'd thought his black montsuki was for the gala but now, despite the vision's revelry, it feels meant for a funeral.

his focus skitters to her—and her many hands, her fractured porcelain, her glowing eye. he doesn't comment though his hands twitch, another surprise. )

I- I did. ( his fear recedes as their dance continues, though his voice remains unsteady. cold sweat lines his skin—pale and gelatinous, changed from partaking in the feast. less human. another victim glutted on memory and emotion. ) It wasn't mine either, but I thought...

( no, he shouldn't say anything he can't offer with certainty. his gaze flits to and fro, searching for answers that aren't there. though it might be hard to tell, black as his eyes have become, like small pools of oil. )

The music too, and—singing. Was it a... a ritual?

[deathstealer]

A resemblance could certainly be found,
to rituals, to seances, and to godly worship.
I spied both joy and manic idealation,
an obsession turn'd twisted and poisonous.

[ She continues to lead the dance, taking command of it as easily as a storied general commands armies, but her gaze is distant, her expression still and contemplative.

She thinks, later, she will attempt to contact this god through the Murmur. She may be waiting for some time, or it may happen immediately. Either way, she has questions, and she wants answers. ]

But then, is not most worship this way?
Are not most gods simply craven?

[ Amusement tugs at her lips, both porcelain and spectral. ]

This, thee will learn,
if thee linger here.

[for_sake]

( his relief in following her lead in the dance is palpable, though his brow furrows as he inspects and dissects her verse. 'joy' and 'obsession' catch like a skipping record until he reconsiders the claws, the song. )

Poisonous, that's it. What god does that, who'd feel happy with claws in them?

( but the joy, the mania, yes, it fits worship perfectly. beating drums and dancing and offering oneself unto exhaustion, and pain, and… yoshiki never understood it, never offered more than a prayer at a shrine, but he sounds out an agreement—that stutters into confusion. gods? craven? )

Is saying that safe here?

( his face lifts to the pedestals elevating the Guardians and One as quickly as he turns away from them. craven explains gods' absence, or distance, but what would he know? the nature of gods is beyond him and, to him, the shift in her expression signals as much. even if, however briefly, he'd thought himself intermingled with a god. )

If I... So you're familiar with this, this dream? With gods?

[deathstealer]

For months, some of us have dwelt here,
under rotten moon and black sky,
and the watchful eye of this loving god.
As we have learn'd,
so to thee shall learn.

[ She catches his glance at the pedestals, and how quickly he turns away. How he had asked if such treasonous things were safe to say here. He is afraid of offending them, then, and this is likely the smartest way for him to be.

Ranni, on the other hand, has made offending the gods her life's work. Her very destiny. She's not about to stop now. ]

To feel joy in this god's clawed grasp,
one must first become twisted.
Like the captive loves their captor,
like the downtrodden love their greedy king.
That is how a god of poison and fear finds subjects;
by turning them about so many times
that they do not know which way is up
and which way is an acceptable way to love.