JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

ᛗ

Prologue: New Characters

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome home, new Vessels.

Watch on YouTube

ᛗ

Sink Down Like Precious Stones

( content warnings: drowning, body horror )

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

This is a test, and it begins with belief.

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

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

NOTES:

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

TOKEN EFFECTS:

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

OFFERING EFFECTS:

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

ᛗ

You Taste Like New Flesh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table awaits.

NOTES:

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

TOKEN EFFECTS:

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

OFFERING EFFECTS:

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

ᛗ

There's Something In The Way You Lay

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

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

NOTES

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

TOKEN EFFECTS

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

OFFERING EFFECTS

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

ᛗ

I am not worthy

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

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

"I am not worthy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOTES:

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

TOKEN EFFECTS

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

OFFERING EFFECTS

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

ᛗ

OOC NOTES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

network ᛗ logs ᛗ ooc ᛗ memes ᛗ navigation

code

Comments

Laure Esposito | Dead Cells: Immortalis | New Player

[supposito]

a. sink down like precious stones

The dreams. The dreams never stopped. Every time she closed her eyes, the same thing, over and over. Not the dreams of her parents. Not the dreams of the Malaise. Not even the dreams of the other priestesses, taunting her, that she wasn't fit to be one of them. No...Come home
But wasn't this her home? The simple farm where the Guardians of Truth dwelled...

You are mine, now. You always were.

How had she plunged into this strange water? Laure did not know, but the darkened sea did not let her sink into it; instead, it sheeted like rain and resolved into a glassine plain that stretched out before her. She lifted a gloved hand, feeling the pronged mask that now sat on her face. Strange. Like the mark on the Queen's face. That couldn't be right, though, could it? But it didn't feel right to take it off. Not now. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

The truth you shall always tell, otherwise, you'll burn in hell----no! There was too much to be done. She could not stop. Not now. There was still too much to be done. She had to find a way out of this place. One foot in front of the other, she trudged forward. Though should she pass someone who seems to be drowning, Laure won't ignore them--she will reach out a hand, mechanical in nature, to try to haul them out of the water.


b .you taste like new flesh (starpit fruit)

Stardust on her fingers. For a moment, Laure stares. This is like no fruit she has ever known, but she doesn't know her whole world. Still, the Malaise never gave a gift like this. It's too corrupt, far too likely to leave some sort of monstrous, twisted thing where the fruit wastes away and the pit bites at your fingers. This smells fresh. Sweet. The priestess finds her mouth watering, almost beside herself.

She's never had a dress like this either, long and teal-green, though there's a knee-high slit in it that will let her move. The mechanical hand sticks out like a proverbial sore thumb, but it isn't as if Laure can remove it. Instead, she just frowns at it slightly, before lifting the fruit to her mouth and taking a bite.


c. wildcard

(ooc: I'm shy but PM me here if you'd like to plot, please and thank you! Pretty much open to anything but sexytimes. if you prefer brackets over prose, just go for it, I'm happy to match you!)

a. sink down like precious stones

[shatteredlenses]

The one who catches hold of her hand has no reaction to its mechanical nature. Instead, he mutters the most grateful thank you one who is short on breath can and uses the support to bring himself back to the water's surface.

Ignis had stated out okay, uncertain, but believing in those who he had become close to over the last couple of months. Unfortunately, the exhaustion from being on the go so much the weeks before caught up to him and his concentration had wavered. His doubt had rose up and he'd begun to sink.

On the surface again, he clamps down on those doubts as hard as he can, shoving them back into the box they crawled out of. He takes one more deep breath and then turns his head toward the person who pulled him from the waves.

"You have my gratitude. This place is insidious in how it finds ways to pull your worries and fears to the surface."

Never mind he is wearing a blindfold and there are scars peeking out from under it. Certainly, this place wouldn't bring a blind man here.

Would it?

[supposito]

The mindless Malaise had no care for who it infected. Why should this place care who it ensnared? At the moment, Laure had no idea what to make of it.

"That's just lovely to hear," Laure grumbled. The last thing she needed was to have a fresh dose of worry heaped upon her proverbial plate, but she suspected that she wouldn't have a choice in that, either.

"Are we just getting dropped into the drink, willy-nilly? As if this place decided we needed a bath, first?" She couldn't help but snort a little at that. "Do you need another hand to find your feet, sir? I admit, I don't want to be too overbearing."

He didn't immediately strike her as the type to take offense to help, but if he were independent, Laure wanted to allow him that.

"...do you know where we are, then?"

[shatteredlenses]

"If you can help me make sure I keep my balance a little longer, I would be most appreciative," Ignis' free hand lifts so he can tap at his temple to indicate his eyes and the blindfold. "I've only been without my vision a couple of months and it can be hard finding my place in space in a normal setting let alone one that is distinctly not normal."

He falls silent for a moment, not ignoring her other comments, but actively doing what he said he needed to. That way, if they need to part suddenly for some reason, he will be able to react somewhat normally instead of just tripping over his own feet.

One done, Ignis visibly sets himself and returns his attention to her, "Water seems to be a common theme in these odd "dreams." It always starts with the waves, though these waves were different from the ones in the first dream I experienced. This setting too, is different. My powers gave me a quick glimpse of the castle ahead and I can say with 100% confidence I've never seen it before."

[supposito]

"Of course!" is the reply. Laure really is not the type to leave someone floundering, much less someone whose sight had been taken from them. He might be able to feel that only one of her hands is made of flesh, however; the other one is mechanical in nature, though it acts as if it were akin to its mate.

"So this is something of a recurring phenomenon?" It reminded her of Indexa, just a little, and the false dreams with which she'd plagued them. Though this was decidedly less embarrassing. Though there was something else she'd picked up on.

"I beg your pardon, but 'powers'?" That didn't seem entirely normal.

[shatteredlenses]

"This is the second such occurrence, so perhaps it's just a coincidence, but I suspect it's actually the start of a pattern," Ignis may say he just suspects a pattern, but the tone of his voice makes it clear he really thinks it is a pattern. He just doesn't want to jump to a conclusion too fast lest it lead him to an incorrect answer.

Her question draws a curious expression to his face, "Do you not have magic on your world? I was able to use some magic on my home world, but these powers are different. Here I have been granted control over time somehow. Occasionally, it will give me visions of the future or a future that I perhaps should do something immediately to change."

It's been a lifesaving early warning more than once for this recently blinded man.

[supposito]

That does sound like the beginning of a pattern to Laure, in truth, though she'll let this fellow have his restraint. Better to have that, than to go all out and get in trouble for doing so.

Like the Chosen One often had, and if he hadn't been immortal...

"I suppose we had a sort of magic, but it wasn't something everyone had access to. I've been affected by it," Laure admitted, looking down at her mechanical arm. Not that he could see that. "And the Hand of the King could use it. But besides them, only the Ugly Alchemist had anything that seemed like it could be called magic."

That admission made her eyes widen. "No, we've nothing like that where I'm from."

[shatteredlenses]

The corner of Ignis' mouth quirks up for a moment when he hears her mention 'the Hand of the King.' Though from the way she talks about it, it sounds like a group of some sort on her world and not a just a title.

"On my world, only Lucis' royal family can use magic, but they can share it with others who they deem worthy. That is how I had access to my own. Coincidentally enough, once we are able to reclaim my king's throne, I will hold the title of 'Hand of the King,'" Ignis hopes he will anyway. His blindness is going to change a lot of things, but it doesn't change his desire to stay at Noctis' side.

"We do have spells that can stop or slow a person on Eos, but those spells act on the person themselves, not on time. What I can do now is so much beyond that I can hardly believe it's real."

[supposito]

"You are definitely not like my Hand of the King, I hope! Mine had five Fingers. Five people who went out through the countryside and acted for the King, who mostly remained at the castle. Rotten to the core, the lot of them. You don't strike me as the type," Laure admitted. "Besides, unless you're hiding something, there is only one of you."

Her Hand isn't a very comfortable subject, so Laure's mostly making light of it. It was because of them that she'd gained that mechanical hand of her own in the first place. Then again, she'd also met the Ugly Alchemist, who'd saved her and freed the Chosen One...and paid them back in more than kind...

"So, you had magic before, but you can't use that anymore, and you've gained an entirely new type of magic?" That was something of a summary, but still. Laure almost couldn't believe it herself, but she saw no reason why this man should lie.

"I admit I'm a bit incredulous--but also worried. If you had to lose your magic to gain new magic...what would I lose?" Laure had no desire to lose her hand the first time. She didn't want to lose it a second time.

[shatteredlenses]

Her making light of the situation works because Ignis can't help but chuckle, "No, there is only one of me, though I daresay there were days when I wished there was more than one of me. I do work closely with two others, but they have different roles and titles than I do."

Gladiolus is Noctis' Shield and "Royal Best Friend" seems like a title Prompto would approve of. Either that or "Royal Photographer," but that doesn't seem unique enough to Ignis.

"You have that mostly correct," Ignis states, nodding to emphasize his words. "In the waking world, the only power I have access to is my new one. This dream world is a little different. I didn't notice the first time because of the pain that came with gaining my new powers, but my old ones are still there, beneath the surface. I suppose that is the nature of a dream. Almost anything is possible."

Ignis frowns, though, as he remembers that pain. Are the newly arrived here going to have to go through that too?

"As far as I know, those who had no old powers only gained new ones. I don't believe it's a purely trade-based situation," Ignis might not know if the newcomers are going to end up suffering as much as those who arrived first did, but this at least he can provide a little comfort on.

b

[deltastrike]

[Meanwhile, sitting a few seats down the banquet table, Theseus gorges with no such reservations. After spending weeks worth of waking hours with only improvised jerky and mutant fungal growths, there is no danger large enough that could have persuaded him to leash his appetite in front of a bountiful feast of delicacies.

It's at once discrepant yet perfectly in line with the rest of his appearance. Gone are the tattered clothing and bestial horns and features, tonight Theseus is decked in the regalia of a king of a distant age.

While Theseus may not notice his tablemates (or their hesitation) over his meal, changes are happening without his notice. When Theseus cleans off his current plate, his ears look more pointed than before he finished. And while a distant priority to food, there are memories he didn't have before.]

[supposito]

[Laure watches the man eat--he certainly can pack it away, and he doesn't seem to be suffering any ill effects in doing so. She's still a little reluctant, but hunger drives, so she takes a bite, catching the juice with her fingers--

The memory is a dingy jail cell, scratches embedded in the walls that speak of days, weeks, years spent there, but they are not ones this girl made herself. She weeps, at first--she feels as if she were unjustly imprisoned, but the guards don't care. Nor do they care when they toss in another prisoner, whose head thunks into a pile of garbage while she looks on, horrified.

However, the horror turns to almost radiant joy, when the man picks himself up out of the debris, his head made of brilliant pink flame with a single eye within it. Laure recognizes this man--he is the Chosen One that her religion has spoken of, the one they have been searching for for two centuries and more--and she has finally found him!

They only need to escape...

Laure gasps at that, dropping the fruit back to the plate, and covering her mouth for a moment with her mechanical hand. She hasn't seen the memory again, she only knows that it evoked something.]

What was that? [Little more than a whisper.]

[deltastrike]

Hmm?

[Theseus raises his head mid-bite, mouth still stuffed. Being caught in such an awkward condition suggests at how disturbed he was at the unexpected shock. Having neglected to take note of the others at the table until now, Theseus searches his neighbors for the source of the vision, his eyes landing on the only other guest who is also taking a break from their meal.

Meanwhile, she may catch memories of a glittering sea which is being looked over by someone on the cliffs, younger than the man seated but still just as proud. Although he cannot see over the horizon, his faith is resolute that his birthright awaits on the other side.

As much as he has been enjoying himself, Theseus is still someone who has experienced the dream's cruelty. Theseus makes sure to maintain a level of suspicion toward this stranger who may very well be the cause.] What was what?

[supposito]

[Laure's face falls at his response. Maybe...maybe she was only seeing things, then, but she was sure--no. She could have been wrong. She'd made mistakes before, ones that her former comrades would have chastised her for.

Were they still alive to do so. But to speak a lie was anathema...

Even if she had done it before; she'd done it for better reasons than this. So instead of speaking it, she just shakes her head. At least, at first.]

I don't know how to explain it. Maybe something is wrong with the food.

[What, Laure couldn't even say. Alchemy? Magic? Drugs? She wasn't worldly enough to know. So the truth is that she can't explain.]

[deltastrike]

[The food? Although it is far too late for him to take any measures, in any case Theseus glares at it on the end of his fork. Nothing is revealed from a closer examination, and Theseus can thoroughly vouch that there no offputting smells or tastes.

Next Theseus goes from the fork to the one he's talking to. She seems distraught, which is admittedly not the expected emotion of someone who has tampered with something on purpose. It is also difficult to connect why any intended effect would be induced on herself too. But Theseus holds fast to his hunches, and won't absolve her just yet.]

I know you don't mean the preparation, for the cuisine is impeccable. But perhaps your appetite has been spoiled by... a memory?

wildcard | can a necromancer raise himself? let's find out 😉

[spiritmonger]

Nymnar is faintly aware of the rot not long before everything begins to happen all at once. The splitting of veins like a heart bursting while flames float up and then extinguish. Nymnar had never seen something like this, but every single part of him knew the correct response: get the fuck out. The vessels had just started to fall when he spies a young woman that seemed frozen as it all started to really wind up. There was a lot that was starting to happen as broken bodies fell to the ground and skn and sinew started to split open and tear.

"Things are about to become rather perilous." A pause. "We should not tarry." Nymnar's tone is surprisingly calm given his words and the situation unfolding before the two. His pale eyes are fixed on one body - corpse? - twisting as claw marks appear and muscle is dragged out of the spontaneous wound. There's something bordering sick fascination in his pale eyes as the flesh twists and churns. Pale eyes slide away from the wet carnage and back to the young redhead before him, expectant. The clock was ticking, and he absolutely would leave her here if she did not begin moving.

[supposito]

This is worse than the Malaise. Is it worse than the Malaise? That curse had never made its victims bind together, no matter how much it warped them in life and raised them as zombies in death. It was cruel, but mindless, and as alien as it is, the priestess senses some intelligence behind this. But it is not something she can influence. Is it?

This is too strange. There's nothing she can do, is there? No Chosen One here to make any attempts to save anything. Just her.

And a voice. Surprisingly calm, considering the circumstances--and one that makes her shriek, briefly, in surprise, before turning to stare at the pale-eyed man. Muddy green eyes search his face, briefly, then look past him to search for a door, any way to escape. One isn't obvious to her, but she'd walked in; there had to be a way out.

"If you know a way out, I'll follow you. Don't walk. Run."

[spiritmonger]

Nymnar was rather certain there was no way out, except to wake up from the dream. It was only a matter of time before they woke, but there was no way to know when, exactly, the dream would end. The danger was real enough, though.

"It's less about finding a way out, and more about surviving," he admitted to her as he looked back toward the forming monster. The sharp movement betrayed his nervousness. He turned and started to move before the amalgamation grew aware. He glanced up at the young woman. "Stop standing there. Get moving."

He started to move. Not quite running, but definitely more than a walk. His mind was racing with what to do: he was never a man of physical prowess, and that was especially true now. He did still have necromancy, and this thing was made of broken and twisted corpses. Fleshwarping was never his particular interest: his specialty had always been spirits - because of his heritage, he had always assumed. He could probably figure it out if push came to shove, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

[supposito]

Wonderful.

"And me without a blade," Laure groused. But really, if there was no more time to waste, she wasn't about to stand around and wait for whatever that hideous creature was to catch up to her and either simply kill her, or worse, make her a part of it. No thank you.

It was running, then. And whoever this man was, he was going slower. Then again, he wasn't the tallest fellow in the world. Well, at least being raised on what was essentially a farm had one good thing about it. Laure was stronger than one might suspect. Sometimes, that was a mixed blessing, but not now.

"Thinking is a good thing, but moving might be more important now?" There was an edge of hysteria in her voice, as she unceremoniously lifted the man off of his feet, hoisting him over one shoulder, and running as fast as she could towards where she recalled the exit being.

[spiritmonger]

Nymnar did not consider himself a proud man, as much as some others may decide to disagree with him on the point. He did keep his own dignity, his quiet presence often making him feel larger than he actually was. (Or, at least, that's how he felt about himself.) He had caught the borderline hysteria in her tone - and that was irritating in its own right - but the last thing he had expected was the audacity of this bitch the young woman to go so far as to pick him up and start to carry him.

At first, he was stunned. Nobody had ever dared treat him with such disrespect. Even his jailor treated him better than this. And then he processed what was happening and it snapped into place. She had picked him up. She was carrying him. She had not asked nor even warned him. His shadow reached to catch her ankle and pull, to trip her, but Nymnar barked a word in a language she didn't know, which the Murmur might fill in as being a command such as "no!" or "don't!" in an accent that someone from Earth would recognize as Slovenian.

When he addressed her again, the accent was so thick that without the Murmur she likely wouldn't have been able to understand him. "Keep running, but if you ever pick me up again, I'll kill you and make your body tap dance until your feet turn into bloody stumps." The threat was delivered perhaps too clamly, but his attention was already turning back toward the creature.

"I'm going to try to stop this thing. Keep running but try not to jostle me too much." The last half of the sentence was dripping with something nearing irritation - at her, at the situation, at him having to learn how to use the magic here because it just wasn't quite right. Regardless, he started to focus and try to weave a spell. It would take a minute as he fumbled over the magic clumsily like a child learning how to grip for the first time.

[supposito]

If that wasn't just a kick in the seat of the pants! Try to do a good deed and get threatened with murder.

Just another--what day was it? Sure, call it Tuesday. Wasn't the first time. Probably wouldn't be the last--it wasn't unusual back home, and it likely wouldn't be...wherever the hell this place was.

Hell, if you asked her. At least so far. Not to mention that if Laure knew he thought it was disrespect to his person--well, there were ways that meant she was actually doing that, and nothing about this was that.

"Noted. Let you die next time. Crystal clear," she huffed. There wasn't time, she felt, to make a longer explanation. She wasn't sure how the creature in pursuit could be so damned fast but it surely was.

Was it gaining? on them? Whether it truly was or was not, Laure's panicked mind told her that indeed, it was. She did her best to take the man's words to mind and not jostle him--doing her best to keep her torso and upward straight, while her legs pistoned like machinery. Regardless, her mind screamed she just wasn't going fast enough to get away.

[spiritmonger]

Nymnar could only roll his eyes when she retorted to let him die next time. She was correct about one thing: there wasn't time to expound upon his thoughts or to chew her out about her comment. There were things going on and he hadn't the patience to explain, but this was the last time he'd do a nice thing for a stranger. Or, at least, that's what he told himself.

He closed his eyes and and focused, searching for the souls here. When he found none, he huffed, annoyed, and turned toward the broken bodies instead. He started to cast and tried to twist the flesh of the creature to do... Well, anything - the goal was to slow it down so that she could outrun it, but instead he feels immense pain flare in his head and something seems to rip up his arm: his suit tears as a large, deep gash cuts up his forearm.

A curse falls out of his lips as he grips his head from the pain as blood drips from his arm to Laure, unceremonious as it stained her outfit. All he'd managed to do was somehow hurt himself: the abomination was completely unaffected.

[supposito]

There was not even enough time for her to make any more snide remarks or attempt blistering commentary. Her lungs burned as she ran. Maybe there were people who weren't worth saving.

...no, that sounded more like Flameface talking. Laure didn't feel that way.

She does glance up as blood spattered on her poncho. Sadly, that wasn't the worst it had ever suffered; Laure lets out an undignified yip and tries to run as hard and as fast as she can, to no avail. It gains, sending out pseudopods, lashing out at them. One catches her ankle, and she trips, going flying herself and losing her grip on the necromancer.

[spiritmonger]

It figures that the person who would have the audacity to pick him up and start to run like he were some nitwit was the same type of person who would actually lose her footing and land hard on the ground, using him to soften the blow. No, it doesn't matter that it was an accident. It didn't matter that it had grabbed her and tripped her. This was her fault, absolutely.

She was being dragged away before Nymnar quite realized what was going on, stunned between his head cracking against the floor and the searing pain running up his forearm. He pressed one hand to a temple as he stumbled up to his feet, but by the time he glanced at the creature, a clawed hand wraps around him, digging into flesh and trapping him. He's made to watch the fate he's about to succumb to, the disgusting intimacy of it.

And when it's done with Laure, it's his turn, and it takes its time consuming a lifetime defined by failure.